The Tale of Applebeck Orchard

by Susan Albert

  Now, Paolo and Pedro were muscular, agile, and entirely fearless young badgers, especially when it came to ropes. In fact, they were exactly the sort of fellows one would want to take on a rescue mission, and it was a very good thing that they just happened to drop in the very afternoon that they were needed.

  It was also a good thing that Bosworth went on shouting (or screaming or bellowing or roaring or whatever you want to call it), because it was the sound of his cries that guided Hyacinth and his rescuers—and not a moment too soon, either, for he had shouted himself hoarse and was beginning to run out of steam. Another ten minutes, and I doubt that he would have been able to summon so much as a whimper. And then of course, it would have been Bosworth and Benjamin, together for eternity.

  So it was one very relieved badger, as you can imagine, who looked up and saw a flickering beacon of light—a beacon of hope—many feet above his head. It was Hyacinth’s torch.

  “Hullo up there!” he croaked. “I’m here. Down here! Very far down,” he added to himself. “I doubt you’ll be able to get me out.”

  Hyacinth leant over the edge. “Uncle!” she cried anxiously. “Uncle Bosworth, are you all right?”

  “More or less,” Bosworth called. “Can somebody fetch a rope?” He tried to move. “Or Parsley’s laundry basket, p’rhaps? My right foreleg appears to be broken. I don’t think I can climb a

  rope.” To be truthful, he wasn’t sure he could manage to get into Parsley’s laundry basket, either.

  “Don’t worry, Uncle,” Hyacinth shouted in a comforting voice. “Pedro’s gone for a rope. Someone will be down to get you very soon.”

  And someone was. He proved to be an extremely strong and agile badger, who came paw-over-paw down a rope, which was secured at the top end by another extremely strong badger. A moment later, a second rope came down, with Parsley’s large wicker laundry basket fastened to the business end. There was some difficulty getting Bosworth into the basket—his foreleg hurt him very much, of course—and he was really too big for the basket.

  But once he was in, hauling him out of the pit was duck soup, as the Americans say. After all, Paolo and Pedro were used to handling ropes and swings and the like, and they brought up the basket with a minimum of swaying and bumping against the sides of the pit, although the ascent made Bosworth feel quite airsick. Once he was safely out of the pit, the circus performers took turns carrying Bosworth on their backs through the labyrinth of passages, back to the main part of The Brockery. Getting back wasn’t difficult at all, either, because Hyacinth (clever lass!) had taken the precaution of mapping their route as they went along. Please remember that the next time you’re about to enter a badger sett. Making a map is infinitely better than finding yourself lost.

  With the aid of Hyacinth’s map, the rescue crew returned safely, and it was no more than half an hour after his rescue that Bosworth was sitting in his rocking chair beside the kitchen fire, his feet soaking in a wooden tub of hot water and Epsom salts, his poor injured foreleg expertly splinted by Parsley and wrapped with a poultice of boneset leaves, to speed healing. There was a glass of restorative nettle beer at his left elbow, and a plate of fresh, hot scones, slathered with lavender honey and freshly churned butter, at his right. The talk, of course, was all about how Bosworth had managed to fall into the pit and what he found at the bottom (the details of which you have already heard), and how other animals might be prevented from getting lost and falling into it.

  And all the while, Bosworth kept his eye on the handsome trophy he had brought back with him—well, not a trophy, exactly, but certainly a reminder of his grueling and very nearly fatal experience, letting him know that there was something he needed urgently to do. It was Great-Great-Uncle Benjamin’s cane, cut from a length of the stur diest oak, polished to a deep, rich gleam, and topped with a head that was carved into a crown-like shape, so that the whole affair looked rather like a scepter.

  And Bosworth was ready to do it—more than ready, in fact. He was tired of procrastinating, postponing, deferring, and delaying. He didn’t give a hoot what the professor thought, and whilst he wished fervently that Thorn would come back, he was confident that Hyacinth was the very best choice of a badger to wear the Badge. As far as he was concerned, she had already passed the most significant test, expressed in the Fifteenth Rule of Thumb: It is well to keep one’s head when one is confronted with catastrophe, calamity, or cataclysm. Losing one’s head never solves anything. And also in the Sixteenth: The prudent badger assesses the situation, determines a course of action, and speedily gathers the appropriate resources. Such badgers should be called upon for leadership whenever the clan is in need of help.

  Hyacinth had kept her head, had brought help, and a torch and ropes and a map, and had gotten them all back safely.

  “It’s time,” Great-Great-Uncle Benjamin whispered, at the back of his mind.

  It was time, and Bosworth knew it.

  He held out his undamaged paw. “Come and sit beside your old uncle, Hyacinth,” he said. “I would like to talk with you.”

  16

  Miss Potter Lets Something Slip

  Tidmarsh Manor was a large, forbidding-looking house, built entirely of stone and overshadowed by ancient pines and yews, at the edge of Cuckoo Brow Wood. Its windows turned blank, empty eyes onto the world, and its chimneys rarely showed a trace of smoke, because Lady Longford believed that fires (except on the coldest of days) were a fine way to burn up money. Generally speaking, the house wore the same grim, cheerless look as did its longtime owner—which might prompt us to wonder whether her ladyship was perpetually out of temper because she lived in such a bleak house, or the house was always sullen and cross because her ladyship lived in it. Also at the manor with Lady Longford: her granddaughter Caroline, now sixteen; Caroline’s pretty governess, Miss Burns; and Mr. and Mrs. Beever, gardener and cook, respectively. Oh, and Dudley, her ladyship’s fat, snappish spaniel, who was named for her ladyship’s departed husband and was much too fond of sweetmeats. There is even a certain resemblance between the deceased master and his surviving dog, evident when you study the oil painting of his lordship that hangs in her ladyship’s drawing room.

  This morning, Dudley was sitting by the gatepost as Miss Potter and Rascal drove up. With an effort, he hoisted himself to his feet and bared his teeth at Rascal. “Well, if it isn’t the town mongrel, come to visit the gentry. Who invited you, mutt?”

  “Why, it’s Dud the Chub,” Rascal barked sarcastically, jumping out of the pony cart. “You’ve got to stop eating all that candy, Dudley, old chap. You’ve put on at least three pounds since the last time I saw you.”

  “Dudley!” Miss Potter exclaimed. “You are a rude, unpleasant creature. Be quiet at once!” To Rascal, she added, “And if you can’t be civil, you shall have to stay here at the cart with Winston.”

  Winston tossed his head. “Whyyy am I always the one who’s made to look after that dog? I have better things to do.” He was eyeing a patch of fresh green grass by the gatepost, where Miss Potter had just tied him.

  “I’ll be civil, Miss Potter.” Rascal wagged his stump of a tail. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just come inside with you.” And he began to follow Miss Potter up the path to the door.

  “You’ll do no such thing, sir,” Miss Potter said sternly, pointing. “Go round to the kitchen and see if Mrs. Beever might be willing to part with a bone.”

  “Jolly good idea,” Rascal agreed. “I’ll tell her you sent me. Ta, old boy,” he added to Dudley, and trotted off.

  It was not a coincidence that Beatrix had chosen to call at Tidmarsh Manor on this particular morning. As she told Margaret Nash, Caroline and Miss Burns had written to ask her to come, and even named the day. Mrs. King would also be there, for Caroline was giving a debut performance of one of her own compositions for her grandmother. Further, Mrs. King intended to tell Lady Longford (or so Miss Burns had written) that the girl’s talent was so outstanding that she had recommended her adm
ission to the study of composition at the Royal Academy of Music. Beatrix was not looking forward to today’s visit. She did not like rows—her own with her parents were upsetting enough—and this might be a battle royal. But she had promised Caroline and Miss Burns, and she would do her best.

  Some moments later, Beatrix was seated beside Lady Longford on the velvet sofa in the manor’s drawing room, with Miss Burns and Mrs. King in adjacent chairs, listening to Caroline play an original étude. The girl was dressed in an old-fashioned white dress with a pink sash (selected, no doubt, by her grandmother), and her hair was tied back with a matching pink ribbon. Beatrix thought how grown-up and poised she seemed, very different from the shy, self-conscious child who had come from the sheep station in New Zealand where she had lived until the deaths of her parents. Lady Longford had disowned Caroline’s father when he refused to marry the person she had chosen for him, gone off to New Zealand, and married for love—a sheep herder’s daughter, and much beneath him.

  Her ladyship, an elderly autocrat who believed that everyone in the world should instantly obey her orders, had at first refused to take in her orphaned granddaughter. But once she had grown accustomed to having the girl around the house, she had become very possessive, telling her what to wear and how to behave. As Caroline wrote in one of her letters, “Grandmama has been very kind to me, taking me in when I had nowhere else to turn. I am grateful, but I’m afraid it will be difficult for her to allow me to grow up and lead my own life.”

  Caroline’s performance was, Beatrix thought, quite lovely. She herself was no musician, of course, but to her ear, the composition did demonstrate a remarkable talent. As she listened, she hoped very much that Lady Longford could be persuaded to allow her granddaughter to enter the Royal Academy, although she feared that this was not likely. As Lady Longford listened, she kept time with her ivory-headed cane, thumping it on the floor. If this was a distraction to the pianist or to the rest of the audience, no one mentioned it.

  Caroline finished her piece and stood with one hand on the piano, blushing as her listeners applauded.

  “Bravo!” cried Miss Burns excitedly, jumping up. “Bravo, bravissimo!”

  “That was lovely, Caroline,” Beatrix said, smiling.

  “An excellent performance, Miss Longford,” Mrs. King said approvingly.

  Lady Longford pursed her lips. Never one to praise, she only said, “Acceptable, child, quite acceptable.” She dabbed her white lace handkerchief to the corner of her eye, suggesting the possibility of a tear. “I daresay your grandfather, Lord Longford, would very much have enjoyed your playing.” She glanced in the direction of the oil portrait of her husband (which, as we have previously noticed, bears a striking resemblance to Lady Longford’s spaniel). Although his lordship had been dead for many years, the portrait remained heavily draped in black crepe, and a large vase of black silk flowers sat on a table beneath it, tied with a black satin bow. Lady Longford herself—a tall, very thin lady with formidable black brows and a thin, pinched mouth—always wore black. The Victorians demonstrated an immense enthusiasm for mourning.

  Another dab with the handkerchief. “His lordship was a patron of the arts, you know,” she added.

  “Was he, indeed?” Beatrix asked quickly. She had heard this story many times before, but she thought perhaps it might offer an opening for what was to come.

  Lady Longford lifted her pearl-handled lorgnette to peer at Beatrix. “Oh, yes, Miss Potter. He always admired young ladies who were accomplished in the arts, especially the musical arts.”

  “Then he would have good cause to admire his granddaughter,” Mrs. King put in smoothly. She was a buxom lady with porcelain skin, beautiful hands, and very black hair piled in intricate coils on the top of her head. She wore a loose, flowing garment of gold, purple, and red, testimony to her artistic temperament and her reputation as a renowned pianist. She spoke in a deep, almost masculine voice, with a trace of a German accent. “If I may say so, Miss Longford has an extraordinary talent for composition. Quite extraordinary,” she added, with emphasis.

  “Caroline,” her ladyship said sternly, “you may go to your room now. Young ladies should not be present when their accomplishments are being discussed.”

  Beatrix put her hand on Lady Longford’s arm. “Oh, but I think we must make an exception in this case.”

  Her ladyship frowned. But (although she almost never listened to anyone, especially when they were saying something that contradicted her own point of view) Lady Longford usually paid a reluctant attention to Miss Potter, for whom she held a grudging admiration. Several years before, Beatrix helped her ladyship to escape from the deadly clutches of her personal companion, Miss Martine, who definitely did not have her mistress’ best interests at heart. (If you do not know the full story, you can read it in The Tale of Holly How. It will help to explain what is about to happen.)

  “Oh, very well,” Lady Longford remarked petulantly. “If you’re going to stay, child,” she said to Caroline, “you can make yourself useful. Fetch my shawl. There, on that chair.” Obediently, Caroline brought the shawl and draped it over her grandmother’s shoulders.

  Mrs. King cleared her throat. “As I was saying,” she said authoritatively, “your ladyship’s granddaughter has an extraordinary talent. I have taught for many years—indeed, I may say that I have had experience with a very large number of talented and capable pupils. But I have seen only a very few persons who are endowed with Miss Longford’s native ability—her gift, that is—of composition. She seems to hear the music in her mind, and needs only to learn the mechanics of transferring what she hears to the page and to the instrument. This is all the more remarkable,” she added, “because she has had so little opportunity, in this remote place, to hear music performed.”

  Lady Longford, perhaps somewhat cowed by the confidence in Mrs. King’s voice, made an unusual attempt to be gracious. “I am glad to hear that you think so highly of the girl,” she said, inclining her head toward Mrs. King with what can only be described as a simper. “A talent for music is one of the greatest gifts a wife can bring to her husband. She can provide his entertainment in the long winter evenings. And her children will—”

  “Oh, tut-tut.” Mrs. King waved her hand dismissively. “I am not speaking of that sort of gift. In my opinion, Miss Longford is born to the composition of music.” She lifted her chin imperiously. “That is why I have written a letter recommending her—strongly recommending her, I must add—for admission to the study of composition at the Royal Academy of Music. My letter was sent together with a portfolio of her work.”

  Lady Longford’s mouth dropped open and her eyes went wide. “The Royal Academy—” she gasped. Then she recovered herself, pressed her lips together, and scowled. “Absurd. Ridiculous. The Royal Academy. It is the most nonsensical thing I have ever heard.”

  “But, Grandmama,” Caroline cried in a pleading tone. “I do so want—”

  “Be still, child!” Lady Longford commanded sharply. She turned her gaze on Miss Burns, a slender, pretty young lady with blond hair and blue eyes. “I hold you responsible for this folly, Miss Burns. You have encouraged Caroline to raise her sights to impossible heights. You have too many foolish notions about what is possible.” She gave a scornful wave of her hand. “The Royal Academy of Music would never admit a girl.”

  “Your ladyship is in error.” Mrs. King’s deep voice cut through Lady Longford’s rebuke. “The Royal Academy of Music has admitted women to the performance program for many years. It is true that women have not previously been admitted to the study of composition, for it is felt—by the men, I should say—that women have neither the creative genius nor intellectual capacity and strength necessary for that work.” Her voice sharpened. “This is utter nonsense, of course, which I have told them on several occasions. Women’s musical talents must be encouraged!”

  “Yes, indeed,” Miss Burns cried bravely. “Yes, indeed! They must!”

  Mrs. King continu
ed. “In fact, I believe Miss Longford’s talent to be so clearly worthy of nurture that the administrators might be persuaded to admit her.” She smiled. “I am sure that your ladyship will be gratified to learn—”

  “Well, she won’t be,” Lady Longford said frostily. “You say so yourself, Mrs. King. ‘Women have never been admitted—’ ”

  “Oh, but that was before!” Miss Burns burst out. She flung out her arm in such excitement that she knocked a framed photograph from the table next to her chair.

  Lady Longford narrowed her eyes. “Before what?”

  “Before they saw Caroline’s work and heard from Mrs. King how very good she is. Caroline has been admitted, Lady Longford!” Miss Burns retrieved the photograph from the carpet and replaced it on the table. She turned to Caroline. “Show her the letter, my dear.”

  Caroline pulled a folded letter out of the pocket of her skirt. “Here, you see, Grandmama? I’ll read it to you.” She stood and cleared her throat. “ ‘We are pleased to acknowledge Miss Longford’s superior potential and to accept her into our program.’ ” She gave a little skip. “They’ve let me in, Grandmama. I’m to be the first! The very first!”

  There was a silence. All eyes were on Lady Longford.

  Her ladyship folded her hands over the head of her walking stick, scowling darkly. “I should have been consulted on this matter before now, Caroline. You seem to be extraordinarily talented, I will grant you that, and it is very kind of the administrators to make an exception and admit you. Your admission is neither here nor there, however. You are far too young to live alone in the City, and I refuse to remove myself there. It is out of the question.”